1996 is Killing Me Softly
by MaffyUndead
Summary: June 6th, 1996- Murdoc's with his band mate from his newest band, The Burning Sensations.  He's gonna make it big this time!  A disoriented Alice in Chains fan is discovered in the dumpster behind the pub- love her or hate her?
1. Trash Lady

**Inspired by the story of that guy who was found in a dumpster behind a Burger King. He never did figure out what the hell happened.**

**June 7****th****, 1994- midnight, after Murdoc's 28****th**** birthday celebration **

"I can't fuckin' _believe _they kicked _me _out already! I was just gettin' started!" spat a shirtless man with a slightly drunken slur on his tongue.

"Well Murdoc," replied his stout, slightly younger friend, "they do 'ave a rather strict 'no shirt, no shoes, no service' policy."

"Exactly. Wot kind of a shitty pub 'as somethin' like that?"

"A shitty one?" replied the heavy-set man, named Steve.

"Right you are!" The two cackled, supporting each other's weight as best as they could in their drunken stupor. They slumped heavily against a filthy dumpster, a few feet from the back door of the pub, which the two men had exited from.

"Fuck, man, 'ow are we s'posed to get to your apartment?" asked Murdoc, sliding down against the side of the graffiti-covered receptacle until he was sitting down.

Steve scratched his head, further messing his long, tangled hair up. He then flipped the lid of the dumpster up with a heave, and explained, "Sometimes there's booze thrown out into 'ere."

"And just 'ow's 'at gonna get us home?" snapped Murdoc, and before he could finish standing up to punch his friend in the nose, Steve exclaimed, "_Look! _There's a dead body in 'ere!"

"Wot?" the greasy-haired man cried out in disbelief. The two peered further into the trash, and low-and-behold, the dirt-caked arm of a young woman stuck up from between a half-eaten sandwich and a beer bottle.

"And a lady, no doubt!" proclaimed the dim-witted mate.

"Well, don't just stare at it, pull the body out!" Murdoc commanded of his drummer. The two took full grasp of the petite hand, and before Steve could notice, Murdoc slipped a sparkling ring off of a middle finger and into his pocket.

Once the trash-ridden woman had been placed face-up on the cold ground, her chest clearly moved up and down, showing life.

"Shit, man, she's breathing!" reported Murdoc to his stunned friend. "Give me that bottle over there," he gestured towards the dumpster. Steve handed over a stinking, three-day-old bit of beer, which could have very well have been piss. The bassist/singer stood up over the unconscious woman, and with a yell, dumped the bottle's contents into her face.

The disoriented lady began coughing with a jolt, and sat up after a minute.

"Jesus H. Christ," she stuttered, wiping her face with the back of her ring-less hand. She stopped when she spotted the two pairs of shoes beside her—one, Cuban heels, and the other, mouldy red high tops. She looked straight up and into the faces of the dumb-founded men.

The first man, to her left, had a pathetic attempt at a moustache on his upper lip. It was a copper brown to match his mangy, un-combed mane. His brown eyes peered curiously at her, mostly staring at her chest.

The other man on her right had a peculiar red eye, alienating the other black one. His nose was terribly misshapen and he had black stubble covering the lower part of his face, matching his greasy black hair.

"Eep!" she squeaked.

"Ey little lady, don't be 'fraid," started Steve, turning on his 'charm'. He held a dirty hand out for her to take; the woman hesitated, and then reasoned she was already filthy- she had nothing to worry about. The pudgy drummer helped her up with a huge grin. He'd already decided she liked him.

Murdoc watched his band-mate lift the thin girl up, and then turned his attention to her. She'd probably look decent with a shower. She had stringy blonde hair touching her bare shoulders; brown roots grew from the top of her head. A faded and ripped denim skirt clung to her emaciated waist and an oversized tee with the bottom ripped off hung loosely off her. It advertised some band he'd never heard of.

"The bloody 'ell were you doing in the trash?" questioned Murdoc. "You a strung-out hooker or somethin'?"

"Ey, don't talk to 'er like that! She's a _lady._" Apparently Steve had no qualms about taking home a strange woman he'd found in a dumpster.

The girl yanked her arm away from the shallow drummer and stared at Murdoc with a look of genuine hurt and surprise. She didn't even know this man; yet he insulted her. Where was she, and—_who _was she?

"I-I—I'm sorry," she stammered, saying the first thing that came to her.

"Oh, Goddammit… about _wot?_ Oh, never mind—Steve, we've gotta go. We have to, err, practice for that upcoming gig, y'know?" Even the desperate bassist wasn't low enough to take a girl covered in trash home. Maybe if she was a little more shapely. For all he knew, she was under-aged.

"Okay," agreed Steve, dumbly grabbing the hand of the woman and following his band mate. The bassist slapped his forehead in defeat and continued the distance to the apartments.

"So, miss… uh… anyways, what _were _you doing in there?" asked Steve, gesturing towards the dumpster.

"I don't know, and where are you taking me? Where—I mean, what planet is this even?"

"She's high as cigarette smoke, mate, now let's leave her at the nearest bus station…" Murdoc grumbled through gritted teeth. Some 28th birthday.

"No! We're going to _my _apartment, and I can take _whoever I want,_"Steve jeered in a childish manor. "You can take a shower at my place, miss," he added with a wink. She let out a squeak and pulled her shirt up over her shoulder.

"Wot is your name, anyway, and where are your parents, girlie?" Murdoc asked in a lighter tone, amused by the shy squeaks.

"Parents?" she snapped in an offended voice. "I…I…," tears began streaming down her flushed cheeks. "I don't—_hiccup –_know my name!"

Murdoc stopped, and his mate and the clueless girl almost ran into him. He turned on his heels and looked at the miss close-up for the first time. He noted the deep purple bruise under her right eye. She'd probably gotten the shit beat out of her, for whatever reason, and temporarily lost her memory. That, or roofies.

"I s'pose you don't care where you stay… only until tomorrow, though," she studied him cautiously. "I'll leave you alone, but… 'e's a different case," Murdoc added. He turned around again and continued towards the road. "Who's 'at band on your shirt, anyway?"

"Huh?" she pinched the shirt between her pointer and thumb and observed it. "I've never heard of it," She examined her skirt as well. "Whose clothes are these…?" she mumbled to herself.

"We 'ave a band," the drummer chimed in. "The Burning Sensations."

"The burning _what?_"

"It's a work in process," grumbled Murdoc.

"So, can I call you Lola? I knew a Lola once… rawr," purred Steve.

"But, my shirt says 'Alice in Chains'. I like Alice," the lady argued.

Murdoc cackled. "I knew an Alice once. Nice lady… heh heh."

Alice gulped.


	2. Violent Femmes

**I'm sorry this is so short; my inspiration left me after the first paragraph. Thanks for the reviews, and please, for the love of God, feel free to review.**

While in the shower, she'd felt his presence. Thank God for locks. But now Alice lay on a dirty brown couch, which after at least two decades of absorbing the cigarette smoke of countless groupies and aspiring musicians, stank like the cushions themselves were stuffed with burnt tobacco leaves. The only thing creating a barrier between Steve, the crazy guy who'd kept holding the lost woman's arm, and the lost woman herself, was a torn, dirtied wool blanket. Alice pulled it over her head to shut out the bright lights pouring into her dark room from the kitchen.

The floor beside the couch creaked loudly, foiling a would-be noiseless step. Alice sat up with the ferocity of an Olympic athlete and yanked on the chain to the dull lamp beside her. After several tries and still no illumination, she concluded it was a dead light bulb.

"Ay poppet, calm down, 's me, Steve!" called a raspy voice, cutting through the dead silence in the pitch-black living room.

"Uh, I was asleep, you startled me," lied Alice in a normal voice. Why was he whispering, anyway?

"Shh! Murdoc's passed out." Steve flipped on the light switch. With the ceiling lights on, Alice could see in plain view the pocket knife glistening between his nicotine-stained fingers. "Come on."

The frail girl just about fainted after seeing the sharp tool in his incompetent hands—thinking he was going to murder her or something—but instead Steve was simply holding on to it. Alice pulled the heavy blanket off and followed the drummer to the door, which led into the kitchen.

The air in the apartment was humid enough to choke on, and Alice repeatedly peeled the t-shirt the two strangers had lent to her from her skin. It clung relentlessly to her body, weighted down by sweat. Steve reached into the cheap mini-fridge and stood back up holding two cokes in his hands. Alice gratefully accepted one.

"I play drums," he suddenly blurted out.

"You mentioned that."

"Wanna hear? Maybe listen to a song from our band? Murdoc seems to be asleep enough," Alice looked into the drummers face and felt a pang of guilt for being such a bitch.

"Okay," she agreed.

The young woman was led through another door and into a make-shift bedroom, with a mattress pushed into the left corner of the wall. On it was Murdoc, sprawled out and perfectly still. A real bed was in the right corner and a pile of blankets in the shape of one was near the farthest wall. Beside the real bed rested a worn-looking drum kit and a collection of broken guitars and basses. Steve settled into the drum set and began pounding away a sloppy beat.

"Wot the bloody 'ell is 'at?" demanded a muffled, tired voice from beneath a pillow. Murdoc hesitantly sat up, revealing blood-shot eyes.

"Drums," replied Steve matter-of-factly.

"No. Shit. Stop it, I've been asleep for _fifteen fuckin' minutes_!" he fumed. He still wasn't wearing a shirt, and a crucifix dangled from his neck. Alice hadn't noticed it before.

She stood up, ignoring the two men, and snatched up a guitar. It was robin's-egg blue, although it was hard to tell with all the scratches covering it.

"D'you play?" asked the bassist, sounding slightly interested for a change.

Alice continued observing the instrument to avoid eye contact and simply replied, "No." She strummed once, feeling the soft movement through her ribcage, then once again. It was hopelessly out-of-tune, but she didn't know how to tune a guitar. The woman pinched her thumb and pointer fingers together and played the first few notes of an almost undecipherable 'Blister in the Sun".

"You're right; that sounded like shit," Murdoc sighed.


	3. Blair Bitch Project

**I'm trying to capture the essence of the 90's. I hope. Anyways, Lydia and Blair shouldn't seem like OC's. I'm not making OC's, just characters to fill spots. You'll see; nothing cheap. No mary-sues, never.**

"Now move your hand to that fret," instructed Murdoc. It was a week after the dumpster discovery, and Alice was still crashed in Steve's apartment.

"Okay," she replied, sliding her fingers to the right of the guitar's neck.

"The other way," he corrected. Alice hit the wrong string, and he jumped in to move it. He placed an olive hand over hers and to the direction of the third fret.

"Eep!" Alice jumped, flustered at the contact.

_She's a weird one…_ Murdoc thought to himself.

The door to the stuffy room flew open, cracking into the wall beside it as Alice was about to strum the high E string. Instead, startled, she plucked it, producing a goose bump-inducing sound.

"We gotta go now or we'll be late!" exclaimed Steve from the doorway. The lady, clad in a black 'Burning Sensations' t-shirt and ripped jean-shorts, flipped the borrowed guitar over her shoulder and followed the other two men out.

The apartment complex had flight after flight of stairs with no hope of an elevator; it'd been closed off after a minor fire. Graffiti, black ooze, crud, gum, and cigarette butts covered every step.

Once finally out of the dismal building, a rusted white '77 Toyota Land Cruiser met the three. A lanky brown-haired man stepped out, holding a scratched-up electric guitar.

"Oi!" called Murdoc in greeting. He gestured the mate over. "'S our guitar man, Blair."

"Hi," squeaked Alice, as terrible at hellos as ever.

All four piled into Steve's crappy blue van. It actually wasn't his; it was his mum's, who'd let him borrow it for gigs.

"Wot's _she _'ave a guitar for?" Blair questioned protectively. He looked like a real asshole to Alice, who tried buckling her seatbelt, only to find it singed off with only a charred end left.

Murdoc positioned himself between a floor tom and an amp—already packed tightly into the van—and then replied, "Nothin'. We're teachin' 'er to play, maybe we can replace your arrogant arse one of these days."

Blair crossed his arms in disdain as he sat all alone in the farthest seat in the back. Alice sat by herself in the middle, the other seat occupied by the rest of the drum set. She hoped no one saw her face flush with embarrassment.

Steve drove carefully to the pub where 'The Burning Sensations' had a gig. Halfway through the trip, annoyed by complete silence, he started up a conversation—"So, 'ow old should we say the lady is?"

"At least eighteen, or she can't drink," explained Murdoc.

"If we're around, she can be sixteen and drink, can't she?" asked Steve.

"She don't even look sixteen!" retorted Blair.

"Ay, I know she's at least eighteen," replied Murdoc matter-of-factly.

"Yeh, I guess," said Steve. "Alice?"

She perked up. "I'm at least eighteen, yeah!"

Blair snorted.

"I've always 'ad a thing for the number twenty three," explained Murdoc.

"Oh?"

"Yeh, I say twenty three. "

Steve pulled into the pub and began unloading with the help of the others.

**Inside…..**

Alice sat alone at a table, waiting for The Burning Sensations' turn. How they got a gig was a wonder, though. She didn't expect them to be any good. She sighed and ran her fingers through her now shiny hair. She'd washed it and it'd come to life, but she still had dark two-inch roots protruding from her scalp.

A hard tap on the shoulder got a loud '_eep!' _from Alice, who immediately sat up. Another girl slumped into the stool beside her, and asked, "This seat taken?"

"Ah, no," she nervously said.

The girl looked like a deflating balloon as she slowly laid her head into her folded arms, covering them with dyed black hair. Suddenly she snapped back up, surprising Alice. Crazed brown eyes, covered with too much black eyeliner, stared into hers. "Hello! I'm Lydia. I don't go up for a good half hour," she explained, motioning towards the stage. "You gotta band?"

"No… I'm waiting for some friends with a band to go up," she replied. "The Burning Sensations?"

"ACK!" Lydia leapt up over the tabled and put her face into Alice's. "_You're _with that shit?"

"Hey—I'm not in it, I just—"

"Do you play?" she interrupted, sitting back down.

"A little, I'm being taught," Alice sighed.

"Oh? Well, I couldn't help but notice your lovely guitar. I need you to be in my band."

"Hmm? Not now, I hope…"

"No, unless you're ready to go up in, like, twenty five minutes. Just whenever." She snatched up Alice's petite palm and took out a pen, scribbling something on it. "Here, my number. Call me later, we can arrange something." Lydia then stood up and walked to an empty table, her black A-line skirt swaying with her movement.

"…The Burning Sensations!" Murdoc's voice suddenly cut into Alice's conscience. She looked up to see the band already set-up and starting—how had she not noticed them before?

Murdoc played bass while crooning the most God-awful song Alice had ever heard. After the second and final set, she forced herself to clap, as did many other women. The men, though, mostly stayed quiet. Curious.

…**.…..**

"Wot'd you think?" asked Steve.

"We sound like shit. It's Murdoc, he can't sing worth a—"

"Sod off, _Blair! _Fuckin' pansy, always whining…" Murdoc cut in.

"You sounded—"Alice began.

"'Ey, we could get a singer without kicking Murdoc out," suggested Steve.

"Well, you sounded just—"

"We don't need a fuckin' singer!" snapped Murdoc.

"_Hey! _You guys sounded okay," Alice finally finished.

"Thanks!" said Steve, a stupid smile on his face.

Alice watched the stage from the corner of her eye. Lydia was up, and it was just her with her guitar and voice with a male drummer, who occasionally added vocals as well. They didn't sound half bad, just lonely. Maybe she would call her after all.

**At the apartments…..**

Alice held the ancient yellow cord phone in her hand, dialing the number written on the other. She idly twisted the cord around her finger, listening to the rings. One… two… three… Alice was about to hang up, when suddenly someone answered.

"Hello?" said a familiar voice.

"Lydia, I—"she started.

"Oh, good, you called. Friday, at that pub. See you then." Lydia then hung up.

"He—hello?" _She hung up? _Wondered Alice. Friday, at that pub, then. Wait—what time?


	4. Smoke Rings

**The Barley Mow is a real pub in Stroke-On-Trent.**

Alice sat at the lonely table, fingering the dried gum underneath it and not even caring. She nervously looked around, searching for Lydia. She hadn't specified a time, so Alice came at the same time as the night she'd met the pale gypsy.

Steve had driven her to the pub, the Barley Mow. She hadn't paid any attention to the name before.

Alice stroked a crease in her t-shirt. She still didn't have any clothes of her own, and so she borrowed another 'Burning Sensations' tee. This one was pink; supposedly it'd been white, but someone snuck a red sock into the laundry. She had no trousers outside of the denims, so Alice made sure her shirt was extra large, like a dress. Class could kiss her arse.

Alice got lost staring at her reflection in the glassy pub table, hypnotized by the blaring music in the background. Derealization had snatched her by the slender neck, and when the woman sat down with her, Alice seemed to be in a trance.

"Hey," greeted Lydia.

She jumped a little, startled, and recognized the face. "Hello, Lydia."

Lydia pursed her plum lips. "What's wrong? You look like a zombie."

"Oh, sorry. So, your band…"

"Yeah, you don't even need talent. You seem to be over-qualified… all the other members we've gone through didn't even _own _a guitar, let alone play one," she began, and then stood up. "Let's go out for a second, I have a headache coming on."

Alice followed her out of the pub, grateful for an escape. She was getting a migraine as well.

Outside, Lydia leaned against the brick wall of the building. She eyed Alice as she took a pack of fags from a pocket in her faded denim jacket. "What the hell are you wearing?"

The petite groupie uncomfortably shifted from foot to foot, looking down at Steve's oversized brown high tops tied onto them. "I don't really have anything to wear…"

Lydia took a drag, then made an 'O' shape with her full lipstick-lips when she blew out the smoke. She then inhaled the heavy air and looked up into the night sky. Turning to Alice, she asked, "What's your story?"

"My what?" she replied quizzically.

"Your story. I know it can't be normal. What happened? Drugs? What?"

"Well, for starters, that shit band I live with, they found me in a dumpster," Alice motioned towards the trash a couple feet away, which wasn't the same receptacle she was discovered in, but it was close enough. "I was wearing an 'Alice in Chains' shirt. So my name for now is 'Alice'. I have nothing to wear, the end. No drugs."

Lydia looked at her unbelievingly for a moment, but softened up. "Ah, that _is _weird. Well, as long as you're in my band, you can borrow my clothes, alright?"

"I'm in that easily?" asked Alice in astonishment.

"Yeah, now let's go back in," replied the new band mate, tossing her fag under her high-heeled boot and crushing it.


	5. Frozen Glass Mannequin

**Thanks for all the reviews so far! They really make me happy *HINT HINT* :D **

Murdoc felt around his pockets for the keys jutting out. He pulled them out lazily and flipped through until he found the slightly copper-coloured one; the key to the apartment. Pushing it into the hole, he began turning, but before he could manually do it, the door opened.

"Hello!" breathed the cordial voice—Alice. Murdoc forced a smile and pushed past her, heading for the couch. On it, though, he found long, shapely fishnet-legs crossed together, forming a familiar, sensual pattern of flesh.

"Well hello there," greeted the woman in a low, raspy voice. She sat up and set her guitar aside. "Am I in your way?"

"No, not at all," replied Murdoc with a sly smile. He sat down on the other end of the couch.

"Sorry I didn't say anything," Alice nervously cut in. She sensed the chemistry, and didn't like it. "This is Lydia, my new band mate," her voice held a little pride, "and she's helping me with the guitar now."

"Oh, is she?" Murdoc kept his eyes on the woman. "Lydia…" he tried out the sound.

_Oh God…_ gagged Alice on the inside. _Gotta get out of here…_

"Um, I think I need something from the store, I'll, ah, go get it," she weakly explained, grabbing the emergency cash from the hidden drawer in the kitchen. Alice scurried out the door, sighing once it was closed.

As she walked to the corner store, Lydia walked into the bedroom.

**…..**

"£1.22," spat a grim-looking man from behind the counter. Alice set the money down and walked out with her coke. She stood against the brick wall watching cars pass, when a particularly clunky station wagon flew by. A pimple-faced teenager popped out the side window with a can in his hand and screamed, "Cunt!" and tossed the can, splashing sticky, warm drink on Alice's legs. His mates laughed as they sped away.

Alice scratched at her legs, now itchy from the sugary liquid drying on them. She had nowhere to go despite the money in her pockets—it was no fun having no ID. Hell, it was no fun living in Stroke-On-Trent.

She strolled down the street, making the trip back to the apartments as slow as physically possible. Steve's van was nowhere in sight—he was still at his mum's. Damn. Alice made the journey up flight after flight of steely steps, thankful for them for once. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand and wished the inside of the apartment wasn't so much like that of an oven.

Alice tested the doorknob—unlocked. She slowly turned it and stepped into the empty living room. She could see through the kitchen and to the bedroom door—it was shut. Yells emitted from within it, and Alice grimaced. _You're not twelve… you're not twelve… you're not twelve! _She repeated the three words over and over in her mind, but finally gave up. She dashed from the room, thankful to no longer have to listen to the two.

Underneath the welcome mat to the apartment room was a cheap pack of cigarettes—'for emergencies only'. Murdoc's idea, of course. Alice retrieved the smashed box and held a stomped-on fag between her slender fingers, lighting it with her favourite orange lighter. She made her way back down the stairs and outside once again.

**….**

Murdoc pulled his jeans back on and searched around for the plain black shirt he wore. Lydia was locked in the only bathroom, 'reapplying makeup' as she put it. The man sat down heavily onto the stacked mattress, wiping his forehead. He'd heard Alice shut the door loudly, obviously as she left again. Somewhere in Murdoc's twisted logic, he thought _maybe _it would be a little rude to sleep with a friend's band mate the second you met them, leaving the friend all alone. But it was a stretch.

Alice had looked like a frightened bunny as she introduced Lydia; maybe she was reconsidering bringing the woman into the apartment. Murdoc prided himself on sleeping with nearly every pretty woman he met, as Alice should've figured. He hadn't actually put the moves on Alice herself, but he figured she'd be there a while.

Murdoc shuddered. Could he really take her? The small, frail woman he'd found? She was pretty, but looked like a simple touch could shatter her—like frozen glass. It was a different kind of pretty, like observing the mannequins while window shopping.

Murdoc pulled the shirt from the floor and put it on. A light 'click' was heard, and as expected, Lydia was gone.

**…**

Alice could hear footsteps on the metal stairs, but thought nothing of it. Lots of people in the apartments made their way up and down them each day. She took a drag of the cigarette and tasted it. It wasn't enjoyable; the fag was stale and dirty.

"Hey, _poppet._" Someone ruffled her hair. Alice spun around; it was Lydia. She exhaled and accidentally blew smoke into her face.

Lydia coughed and waved it away. "You mad? Did you like him?" she questioned, hinting at the fling.

"What? No! Of course not."

"Hey, you _do _sound mad. You're still coming for practice later, right?"

Alice gulped. "Yeah."

"I'll see you later," waved Lydia.

"Yeah…" she sighed. She tossed the fag down and stomped on it with the toe of her shoe.

Making her way up the stairs, Alice heard the door open. Looking straight up, she could see Murdoc. He crossed his arms and went back into the room.

Inside, she closed the door behind her.

"Ey, thought maybe you 'er Steve. 'Specting 'im back soon."

"Oh," Alice sighed, not sure where to go. Her room was the living room, and they were both in it. She stepped into the kitchen and began pouring a bowl of cereal, though she wasn't hungry.

As she grabbed the milk, Murdoc stepped in, and took a breath before asking, "'Ow's the guitar goin'?"

"Fine…" he certainly hadn't seemed interested before.

"Oh. So I guess you've gotten yourself a band, too,"

"Yeah."

"Tell me when you play; you come to my gigs so I should come to yours," he suggested, before leaving to his room.


	6. Second Base

**Oh God, that was so hard to write. Soooo awkward. And it wasn't even all the way. Everyone better fucking enjoy the fruits of my labour! I feel so dirty... I've got to take a shower. **

The ash blonde collapsed onto the pile of blankets and pillows that served as a spare bed. The aroma of hair grease, cigarettes, and cheap lavender detergent immediately wafted out from the air pockets in the folds of the sheets. Normally she wouldn't dare venture into the boys' bedroom, but everyone else had gone out and brought their usual visitors with them. The apartment room was unusually quiet and serene.

Alice twirled a lock of hair around a finger, thinking about the 'help wanted' sign hanging in the dusty corner store window. She needed to start up a life- get a job, a little condo, maybe, and perhaps even a kitten to accompany her otherwise lonely presence. It was time to leave Steve alone, before he realized she was only hanging around him for his loose wallet.

More importantly, though, she needed to get away from Murdoc.

He's dangerous, Alice thought, deciding any sort of friend—or more than a friend, God forbid—could kill her chance of freedom. He'd been acting more and more warm towards her, and knowing his reputation, she couldn't let him in. She couldn't help but enjoy his company, though.

The light 'click' of the apartment door echoed throughout the quiet room, and Alice's heart leapt like a swordfish into her throat. She hastily sat up from the make-shift bed and grabbed a guitar to create an alibi.

Murdoc pushed open the door, thankful for the gush of cool air meeting him. So far the summer had been sticky and humid. He sat the fliers advertising various bands down onto the couch and turned the radio on; an obnoxious announcer screamed from its speakers. He turned it back off and noticed the quiet string twangs coming from the bedroom, almost as if they didn't want to be heard.

He opened the door and smiled a toothy grin.

"'Ello, love," greeted Murdoc, his black hair glistening with sweat. Alice looked up from the instrument.

"Hello." She noticed how pointed his teeth were, and mindlessly wandered if they were like that naturally.

He sat down on the stained carpet and criss-crossed his lanky legs. "Been practicin'?"

"Yeah…" replied Alice, her mind somewhere else. She hated small talk.

Murdoc stood up and gestured towards her to hand him the guitar. She stood too, passing it over, and watched him sit on his own stacked mattress bed. She sat with him.

He messed with it, playing a string every now and then, supposedly tuning it. Alice didn't blame him for the bad job, though; his specialty was, after all, bass. Finally he sighed, setting the guitar on the floor. He stared at the white wall across from him.

Slowly he turned to look at the girl, and asked, "So, 'ow's your friend?"

"Hmm?"

"You're, ah, band, I mean."

"Oh." Alice folded her hands neatly into her lap and replied, "Fine."

He sighed again and suddenly leaned in, placing a long, slimy kiss on her mouth. She watched the crucifix dangling from his neck; his eyes remained closed. After half a minute she pulled away.

"What?" she gasped, finally breathing again. "Why'd you do that?"

"Why not?" he replied. Alice nervously twiddled her thumbs, not knowing what to say. Murdoc leaned in again, and after a few seconds, having no choice, so did Alice. She could feel his sharp teeth against her tongue and taste the faint but distinct taste of alcohol.

He leaned in further until she was on her back, allowing the passionate kissing but shaking with nervousness. A hand slid against her shirt, forcing it off and over her head. Alice crunched up against Murdoc, sitting up completely and keeping her hands still on each side of her.

Oxygen entering though her nose steadily and rhythmically leaving, she moved her head aside, ear touching his, and felt cold lips on her neck. "Wait," she breathed. Alice crossed her hands over her bare chest and stood up; staring at him for a moment trying to force words out, but none came. She shoved the door back open and left to the bathroom.

Murdoc watched her leave, and then listened to the shower turn on. He'd been successful for a first attempt. She was, after all, a very nervous person.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and took off the sweaty black t-shirt clinging to his olive skin.

She reminded him of Twiggy, Alice did, with her small chest and rail-like legs. For a moment, her long arms had wrapped around him, but then let go. She was too unsure of herself; a virgin. That would make things more fun- like a game.

Murdoc sighed for the third time and reached down to grab the beat-up guitar. He placed it back with the others and sat down again, enjoying the detailed work of the instruments.

**I'm going to Hell.**


	7. Like a Fucking Resume

**I'M BACK BITCHES**

He spotted her from the trash-strewn parking lot.

Not much had changed about Alice, other than her brown roots, which were a little longer. She twirled her split ends about a thin finger, staring blankly at the Fat House Takeaway menu above her. No customers were in the dank restaurant, and after a few minutes of leaning on the metal cash register, a sweaty, obese man in a red-and-white striped uniform appeared and said something to the girl. Alice retrieved her cigarettes from within the register and made her way out of the building.

Murdoc turned off his van—or rather, Steve's van—and stepped coolly onto the cracked blacktop, his polished Cuban heels glistening in the bright August sun. He made no attempt to hurry; that would ruin the big entrance. It wouldn't have mattered if he had, however, as Alice was preoccupied with staring at her worn brown Doc Martins as she hurriedly paced, nearly bumping into Murdoc. She abruptly stopped before she could step on the victim's familiar boots, and out of habit looked past the person to avoid eye contact. She mumbled an unapologetic 'sorry' and nearly kept walking—hardened by life in Stoke-on-Tent—but the spray painted van caught her attention.

Her doe-eyes met Murdoc's mismatched pair, and she blinked once before squeaking out an "Eep—hello!"

"Ello, love," he chortled. He pulled out a small, navy blue lighter and motioned towards the girl's fags. They leaned against the van and Alice offered one of her own cigs, but Murdoc declined and brought out his own box of Lucky Lungs. She waited until he was lit before starting a conversation.

"What are you doing here?" Alice questioned, keeping her eyes focused on the Fat House Takeaway manager, who was watching her carefully from within the restaurant.

"Yeh up-and-left for no reason, and a friend said you worked 'ere now. I wanted to see 'ow you were," Murdoc replied, although his tone suggested otherwise.

He turned to her as she took a drag. Before the bassist could continue, Alice snapped, "No, _really. _What do you want?"

Murdoc sighed and ground his fag into the side of the van. "To give yeh this." He didn't feel like arguing. The musician tucked a folded piece of paper into Alice's greasy work apron and climbed into the vehicle.

"Wait—"exclaimed the girl, and he turned. "Bye," she finished.

"Yeh look snappy in that getup," Murdoc smirked, and the small woman crossed her arms and started back to her sweltering, shoddy job.

The clock struck six as slow as ever, and Alice thankfully returned her striped work apron. She retrieved the paper from the small pocket sewn on the front and unfolded it as she stepped out into the warm evening. Crudely written on the crumpled slip was a phone number. Digging out loose change, the woman made her way to the telephone booth a few feet from Fat House Takeaway and dialed the number. After a minute, the ringing began. After two minutes, it hadn't stopped. Alice waited another sixty seconds then hung up, sighing in disappointment.

"Fucking waste of money."

She tucked her pale hands into her tight jean's pockets, still in her red-and-white work shirt. After a mile and a half of quiet walking through rural areas, it was dark, and Alice had arrived at her bridge. The first thing that caught her eye was the strips of tarp laying about the dead, scratchy grass.

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck!"_

Alice collapsed onto her knees, further ripping her already tattered tights. She didn't care anymore; she once again didn't have a home. Her make-shift tent under the graffiti-decorated bridge was in ruins, all because some punks thought it would be fun to give a stranger hell.

"Well, shit," spoke a familiar voice. Murdoc appeared on the other side of the bridge, flipping a red pocketknife skillfully from finger to finger.

"Jesus—did you do this? Asshole! I didn't do shit!"

Murdoc chortled. "Yeh have a sailor mouth when you're mad. It was only a tarp. I can give yeh a place to stay—a real house!"

"I don't want your house. I want to save up, buy my own place, and be left alone," Alice replied in defeat.

The bassist hopped from stone to stone until he reached the small figure, gently placing a cigarette-stinking jacket over her shoulders. "You can't live under a fackin' bridge, love, now come _on_," he coaxed.

Murdoc helped her up, and they walked silently to Steve's van, about a fourth of a mile from the rural bridge. Alice sat in the front, sulking. Outside the crickets chirped mournfully. She knew whatever the bassist was planning couldn't be good.

**Wow, it sounds like Murdoc's trying to rape her. I promise that isn't it. Anyways, I've been busy with my band and school and stuff so I couldn't update. BUT now I just did! Comment, my pretties ;)**


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